The Voice (short story)

-3-

1977

    Cliamain MacQuilken, a 25 year old free lance photographer, left the local Inn by foot; a long walk would do him good. The bright sky promised a beautiful day with the night frost that covered the houses and fields in a hazy fairytale white, melting as soon as the sun would gain in strength.

   In Australia where he was born and where he lived, he had never seen frosty fields. He once planned to travel all the way to Snowy Mountains also called 'The Snowies'; he never made it to New South Wales but he would after this photo shoot. First he travelled to South Wales Great Britain, much further from home!

    As soon as he left the village behind, he stood still and with his hands deep down his pockets, the collar of his coat pulled up till his ears, he breathed deep. The cold penetrated his lungs and it was a pretty feeling. The path he followed meandered over a steep hill and down to the Vale of Garhowy.

The view was breath taking and he took his time to let it sink in before he got his camera from his rucksack for the first photo's for the 'New South Wales Magazine'.
   The green hills and fields, the trees with the soft tender Spring leaves; he sensed the promise of Spring as he had never sensed it before. In the far distance he saw the chimneys of his goal and he knew he would not arrive there in the first hour.

   He walked down the path and laughed about the rabbits that hastily sought shelter in the hedgerows to hide for the unknown man. The sheep in the fields blew little clouds like he did with every breath and step. He was glad he was used to climbing hills so his calves were not going to hurt tomorrow.

    One hour after he left the Inn he arrived at the rusty gate that lost most of its glory, hanging in its half broken hinges. Green ivy curled between dead grass and brown ferns up into the iron fences.

Despite the sad look of decay, the professional photographer Cliamain (Clem for his family and friends) also saw the beauty of it and took photo's from different angles.

   He tried to push the gates further open but failed. First he laid his rucksack at the other side, next he pushed himself through the gap. Suddenly the gate gave way and opened as if it welcomed a long forgotten friend. The manoeuvre stretched the ivy and towed the ferns and the grass to the corners behind the majestic stone pillars with on top the large acorns covered in green moss.

    The stretched Ivy revealed vaguely the initials 'CJ', Clem knew it were the initials of the family name of former occupants who left the Hall long ago. Therefore he knew what to expect: a derelict house that craved for restoration, if still possible after all those years.

   When he saw the house at the other end of the lawn, he was surprised by the state of it. Of course there were one or two tiles missing from the roof but it wasn't as bad as he expected. For a moment he wished he had the money to restore it, it was magnificent. He did not understand why the family left it and did not believe the many rumours he heard in the Pub last night. But if some of the rumours were true – the family was in financial trouble and had many debts – it was plausible that they never returned and that the house never came up for sale. Somewhere there must still be a descendant to claim the ownership. But who and where?

    Clem thought of it as an intriguing puzzle some one had to solve, but it was not going to be him; he did not have time enough before he returned to Australia. He felt sorry; for himself, the house and the current owner or heir.

   His evening in the local Pub was a surprise. Soon after he ordered his first beer, an old farmer who kept looking at him since he walked through the door, sat down on the stool next to him and to the inconvenience of Clem, kept glaring at him. Clem smiled, hoping it would bring a smile on the farmers face too. But the farmer looked behind him and shouted, winking with his hand: “Elgar, come here!” And Elgar climbed the stool at the other side of Clem. “Take a good look at the bachgen, a very good look and tell me what you think!” Elgar's little watery eyes between at least as many wrinkles as with the first farmer, looked and looked and said: “La.... Nag oes a similarity” and both farmers nodded and nodded while they drank their beer. The 'bachgen' felt uncomfortable with two people discussing him as if was an object instead of a human being.
   After he offered them another Pint, the farmers became more talkative and although Clem did not know all the Welsh words, he soon understood he looked like someone who lived here before. In fact he looked like the Lord of The Hall who's family suddenly left the house in the dark of the night. No one knew where they went to or what became of them.

Soon all the men in the Pub talked about it and he was advised to visit the abandoned Hall before he left for home.

   And here he stood near the steps of The Hall looking at the front door still firmly closed as he noticed pushing it. He walked a few yards back and observed the once so beautiful house and tried to imagine people living here; walking, talking, maybe children playing and laughing. The garden, now completely overgrown, must have been beautiful, like the long driveway. The large windows, now dark and unwelcoming, must have looked inviting with soft light illuminating the facade.

    Clem could not hold his curiosity and walked round The Hall till he found a large door at the back. He pushed the handle and to his surprise he did not need much power to open the door.

He entered a corridor where in the old days hung coats. Boots and shoes stood in the old racks that were now grey with dust and cobwebs. The corridor lead to a large empty kitchen, once the busy heart of the house and full of smells of food and cakes. He imagined an overheated cook with read cheeks, running from one oven to the other and shouting instructions at the young maids.

But there were no other smells than that of dust. And there were no sounds at all, it was the wrong season for the flutter of flies and butterflies.

   From the kitchen he entered a long hallway and arrived at the grand staircase in the middle of a beautiful hall with carved ceilings, now covered in thousands of grey nets, woven by many generations of spiders. Flakes of painted hanging from the ceilings and caught by the cobwebs.

    His shoes left vague prints in the dust, paint and chalk on the tiled floor.

He spent an hour inspecting the ground floor which was empty; there was no furniture. He wondered where it went because the story was the owners left in the dark of the night. He would ask the farmers during his next visit to the Pub. They were old enough to remember.

   While he walked around he was surprised by the strange feeling that although he had never been here before, it somehow felt familiar. A voice not to be heard, called him upstairs. He wanted to obey the voice, it felt as an adventure and he was curious where it would end.

Photo: kelly_jean_urbex_photograpy (Instagram)

    He walked the stairs and explored the large bedrooms and old bathrooms without hearing the voice. Until he reached the door to the attic. He opened the door, climbed the stairs, walked through the corridor with the doors to the servant rooms. The people who lived here must have had many people working for them, he counted the doors. Some rooms must haven been occupied by two people. He realized there was a large gap between the owners who lived in luxury and the servants who slept in cold and dark rooms.

   Suddenly he arrived at a large attic that covered the whole house.

And here he heard the voice again, telling him to go to the large trunk that stood solely in the middle of the attic. He did not obey immediately but first looked around, observing the dirty windows with the diffuse light and hundreds of dead insects on the sills. He had the strange feeling someone was watching him and turned around, though there was nobody.

    He walked to the trunk and the feeling being watched got stronger and stronger. He opened the lid which screeched as if it did not want to reveal it's content.

Clem looked inside but did not see anything. He put his hand in the trunk and followed the paper lining and lo and behold, in one corner lay an envelope. He took it out and looked at it but could only see a vague handwriting.

He walked to a nearby window, removed the cobwebs and used his handkerchief to clean enough window to let the light in. Again he looked at the envelope; he held his breath when he saw what was written on it. His heart bounced and he felt a cold shiver going down his spine.

    Still the envelope unopened I his hand, he turned to the window and stared at the trees in the distance. His brains refused to think, his eyes did not see the trees. He stood there, not knowing what to do let alone what to think. All his emotions came to a halt until he finally noticed the girl standing in the middle of the drive way. She looked at the window where he stood and for minutes they stared in each others eyes as if there wasn't a reasonable distance in between. Was it she that caused the feeling being watched? It could not have been her voice.

Clem turned round at the same moment the girl walked to the house......

Word of thanks: the photo of @kelly_jean_urbex _photograpy inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Kelly!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Kelly Jean her impressive website Kelly Jean Photography and Facebook Account

Note: this is the 3^rd story of 5 that are connected. The Story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Attic (short story)

-2-

1951

    It was a very cold day in October, the icy wind touched my face.
I stood near the grave of my parents and realized I never received an answer to my question. Not sure why I thought about it today, the question wasn't very important; not any more but when I was still a young girl, the question occupied my thoughts.

   My parents died far too young, in a car crash and today was their funeral.

I stood alone near the grave, my husband Braigh waited for me near the entrance, he knew I needed some time alone to say goodbye. With my hands folded around my belly where our baby was growing, I told my father and mother that I would return but not knowing when. And that I would never forget them, what ever happened in the past. It was not their fault and I knew that although I had a different opinion when it happened.

   My hand in the black lace glove wiped the tears from my cheeks before I blew a kiss in the direction of both graves. “Mummy, Daddy, I love you. Goodbye....”.

I turned round and looked at Braigh, my handsome patient Scotsman, my love and the father of my child. He met me half way the path to the gate, folded his arms around me and held me tight to his broad and comfortable chest. I did not have to explain my feelings, I never had to. He always understood my emotions and was there to comfort me when ever I needed him.

It was like this before I told him the story and grew stronger afterwards.

   We said goodbye to the the master of ceremonies who was going to stay in touch with our solicitor for the gravestone and the payments of the bills. It surprised me that my parents took care of that a very long time ago, as soon as they arrived here in Scotland.
   Today only my husband and the solicitor knew my real surname, everybody else knew me by my alias or since my marriage the name of my husband and with the latter we were going to emigrate to Australia in 2 weeks time. But first we planned a visit to the south of Wales to visit for the very last time, the house that was my home during the first 13 years f my life. A house I could hardly remember. A house where I hoped to find the answer to that one and only question which was never answered.

   Braigh drove me to the solicitor to talk through the last necessary arrangements. It took an hour before we said goodbye but not before he handed me an envelope with my name on it, written by my mother. I recognized her elegant and pointy handwriting. “Your mother asked me to tell you not to open this envelope before you are back at The Hall”, the voice of the solicitor interrupted my thoughts: “Will you please promise me that?” I nodded, put the letter in my handbag and shook hands.

   Finally we left the small town I lived in for 12 years. A small town tucked away in the most northern parts of Scotland, miles and miles away from Wales, a town where “nobody is going to look for us, everybody expects us to be abroad” according my father. I never recalled this before but as soon as we left the town behind us, I heard his voice saying these words. And he proved to be right; we were never found and thanks to the love of my parents, I had a happy youth and soon forgot about our sudden move from the house I loved so much. I forgot about my dear friend Elsa, about her parents being close friends with mine, about our wonderful garden and the nursery. But I never forgot that one and only place in the house I had one single question about. And that part of the house I wanted to visit again.

   Braigh was concerned about my health and our baby and booked hotels on our way to Wales. The roads were windy and long and not as today all motorways. It almost felt like a holiday but I knew it was not. My visit to the house was most likely a goodbye for ever. Australia was a long way from home and with no one to return to, it was going to be a one way journey.

   The hotels were very comfortable and the food was excellent; we arrived refreshed at the gates of The Hall I was brought up until we all of a sudden and without any explanations, left in the middle of a dark and windy night where the stars and moon were hidden behind thick black clouds.

   Braigh held my hand when I stared at the large iron gate with the initials CJ at one side and a family coat of arms at the other side but that part of the gate stood wide open. It was rusty and hung in its enormous hinges, the large chain with the padlock was broken and partly disappeared in the long grass and weed that covered the lane.

I could not move, I just sat there and tried to remember how it looked like 12 years ago but I failed.

    We left the car behind and walked through the gate, it was only a short walk to the house. The whole garden was overgrown; we crossed the lawn to the entrance of the Hall and the large stairs leading to the front door with the prominent pillars on each side, once majestic and white, now grey and filthy. We walked through a heap of old leaves and I tried the doorknob but it was firmly closed. Or rusted.

   Hand in hand we walked around the Hall which was so much bigger than in my memories but with each step, memories returned. Today was windy and cloudy but I felt the sun and recognized the gardener, leaning on his rake and padding his sweaty forehead. I almost waved at him but knew he was a only a friendly ghost from the past.

    When we entered the back door which was closed but not locked, a smell of damp and decay and a total silence greeted us. It was shimmery and cold in the once warm and active kitchen that always smelled of delicious pastries and cakes. I could not help smiling when I suddenly remembered myself and Elsa sitting on top of the large wooden table, tasting the little cakes that Cook baked us. She always spoilt us.

   Braigh held me in his arms as if he understood my memories and then asked where I wanted to go next.

I wanted to go upstairs but first walked through all the empty rooms downstairs where dust and damp had taken over since there was no one any more to keep the large fires burning. I looked at all the cobwebs that covered the carved ceilings and corners, gathering the flakes from the decaying paint.

    I was surprised not to feel depressed, this empty house did not at all look like the warm and cosy house I remembered from my childhood. Without the beautiful furniture (where did that go?) it was only an empty shell. Still, when I laid my hand on the railing of the grand stairs walking upstairs, I thought I heard the voice of a young girl; laughing and calling my name. I looked up and thought I saw two girls running to the old nursery, hand in hand but their images disappeared near the entrance to the attic.

    My plan was to visit the nursery but instead I walked to the door that lead to the stairs to the attic and the rooms of the servants. This door was open and I climbed the stairs.

Braigh, who noticed I had forgotten he was still there, followed me and walked behind me passing the many doors to the servant rooms until we reached the large attic.

Photo: @_baksteen (Instagram)

   
   The windows were filthy and dimmed the light. Again I heard the voice of the young girl and finally realized it was Rhiannons voice. “Let's play 'Tea'” she said and I saw the vague misty figurers of two young girls sitting on old chairs and sofa grouped against a wall of the attic where forgotten people on old photo's looked down on them.

    I stretched my hand to accept the cup of 'tea' that was given to me but I only touched air and the girls were gone.
There was only a very large trunk.

It was if the trunk called me, a call I could not resist and I opened it. But even in the dim light I saw there was nothing in it. It was completely empty. My hand followed it's lining but touched nothing else than beautiful decorated paper, the colours protected from fading by the heavy closed lid.

   Suddenly I heard the voice of my mother: “My letter to you....”. My fingers folded around the envelope and I took it from my pocket. I broke the seal with the same coat of arms, unfolded the letter and to share it's content with Braigh, I read out loud:

   “My lovely daughter, my one and only child. You thought I had forgotten about the question that bothered you the first years after we left. The question I never answered nor wanted to answer because back then, you would not have understood my reason.

    I am well aware that you might not understand it right now but hope you will forgive me for what I did leaving it behind in the house, knowing it will come back in the family, one way or another.

I believe it might not be in the trunk any more and if so, my Welsh gift of seeing the future, was right. If so my darling daughter, I can tell you that the precious silk dress with the long lace skirt I left behind will be worn again by the granddaughter of you and Rhiannon the day she marries. And you, Rhiannon and I will watch her, giving her our blessing.

   Remember your father and I always loved you, even more than our own life's.
God Bless you my lovely Gwlithen!”

Word of thanks: the photo of @_baksteen (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @_Baksteen and his impressive website Baksteen Productions

Note: this is the 2nd story of 5 that are connected. The story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen